


Epsilon Rising (John/Lestrade, NC-17)

by buttsnax



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Argentina, Double-men, M/M, Murder, Slash, caw!, m/m - Freeform, seagullock, seagulls - Freeform, triángulo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-03
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2018-02-03 06:00:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1733708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttsnax/pseuds/buttsnax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a serial murderer leaves behind a trail of coded signatures in his wake, our heroes find themselves caught in the steamy center of a terrorist plot that threatens the very fabric of consent. Case fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Epsilon Rising (John/Lestrade, NC-17)

**Author's Note:**

> On an Earth where women don’t exist, there are three genders: men, double-men, and laridae (colloquially known as ‘seagulls’), a scavenging seabird that lives near the ocean. 
> 
> This story takes place in a sub-alternate universe where the major world powers encompass the United Kingdom, The People's Republic of Argentina, and the Federated States of Sri Lanka. Due to the scarcity of natural resources, war is frequent, and relations between the United Kingdom and the Argentine republic are strained. Discussion of Sri Lanka is forbidden under section 1067.3 of the United Kingdom’s penal code.
> 
> Please leave a comment if you have any questions or would like to write in this universe and need help with world-building.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sinister sigil sends chills down John's spine. (It's a triangle.)

  


 

It was nearing noon when, following a blind lead into an alleyway as was their habit, John and Sherlock were confronted with a startling discovery. No, not the bum masturbating in the corner, though that image would stay with them for some time--but a symbol. One they had encountered before. John deliberated silently for a moment as Sherlock looked on.

“That,” he said finally, “is definitely a triangle.”

“Caw!” Sherlock concurred. Sherlock was preternaturally good at telling shapes from afar, given his birdsight. It wasn’t politically correct to point this out, but the kind to throw a fit over an offhand comment were the same ones who ignored that birds had the largest eyes relative to their size of any living animal. John always said, each of Sherlock's eyes was as good as two detectives. Although judging by the look of things, maybe John and four detectives wasn't enough.

The shape of the mysterious symbol now determined, things didn't look good.

Hopping down from his favorite perch (John’s shoulder), Sherlock waddled toward the symbol with the sort of pensive deliberateness of which one might characterize a master detective--which he was, unless you were a bigot clinging to backwards ideas about where _his_ kind belonged (a nest somewhere, probably). Immune to societal pressures, Sherlock traded in the traditional career track of his feathery brethren for a life of danger and intrigue consulting for the UK’s Ministry of Security. Or perhaps such a life chose him. Destiny was a strange bird.

In John’s case, literally. Early into their friendship Sherlock had stubbornly convinced his superiors to let John tag along on their adventures as a sort of medical consultant. Unemployment wasn’t exactly legal and for John would have spelled reassignment to the pit mines, so he was grateful for the opportunity. John didn’t dig mining.

Present tense, his partner was scrutinizing the graffiti marking for hidden details John’s human eyes may have missed. Sherlock touched his beak to the building and sniffed the paint through his nares, making mental connections John couldn’t even begin to--false alarm, Sherlock had just found a beetle. Sherlock’s thinking face and hungry face were very similar.

Finished with his evaluation, Sherlock looked over his shoulder and cawed.

John brought out his cell. “Agreed. I’ll call in backup. We don’t know how deep this runs.” He dialed the head of the city's Investigation Bureau, pausing for a moment to scratch his massive twin penises, which he had because he was a double-man. Double-men were very much like men except for several major distinctions, such as their superior physical strength, increased stamina, and extra penis. Despite tales to the contrary, removing one penis will not enhance the other’s performance to compensate. The blood loss can, however, be fatal.

“Hey,” came the Inspector’s voice over the line. Lestrade was a man and therefore only had one penis, which John imagined was of moderate but respectable size. John imagined Lestrade’s penis a lot. In fact, he was imagining it right then.

“Glad you called,” Lestrade continued. “Got any more intel on our Triangle Murderer?” The Inspector rarely gave out his cell, but John and Sherlock had a proven track record that earned them his full trust, for better or for worse.

John cut to the chase. “You’d better get down here. We’ve found another one.”

“Well shit." Lestrade was in a tough spot. The Bureau had been placed under review after its chairman was implicated in a narcotics ring, putting pressure on the inspector from up top to close this case or face a demotion. His supervisor needed some positive publicity. “That’s the third one this month. What's the cause of death? Same as the others?”

“It’s not like that. This one is . . . different. I don’t think we want word of this getting out.”

“Alright.” John could hear the inspector grab his keys. “I’ll be there in fifteen.”

Good. John hung up and placed the phone in a jacket pocket. He heard a crunching sound and returned his attention to Sherlock, who was still eating that beetle.

So far this case had been consistent: seven triangles, seven bodies (fourteen penises). The victims were all double-men in their peak mating years; the youngest was nineteen. Each of them had been found fucked to death a block or so from a triangle, their naked bodies glowing blue from the cold. John took comfort in knowing at least they’d died enjoying themselves . . . right?

But.

 _This one_ . . . this triangle was different. The murderer hadn't dropped a body. Instead he'd left them a word. It chilled John to his bones.

Lestrade arrived in less than ten minutes, his new Daewoo Leganza leaving streaks of hot rubber as he hit the brakes.

“This better be good,” he said, slamming the car door behind him. He looked super handsome in a fatherly sort of way, the implications of which John decided he wasn’t going to unpack right then but would maybe bring up with his therapist later.

“Caw caw.” Sherlock took off and landed atop Lestrade’s Daewoo. A devious expression gave away his intentions, but for once the Inspector didn’t protest. His eyes were glued to the message beneath the triangle. It stared back at him, its implications undeniable.

_triángulo_

“Fuck.” A wisp of cold air escaped Lestrade’s mouth. “You know what this means.”

 _So you sense it too._ The connection was there but John hadn't wanted to say it aloud of a desperate hope that perhaps he’d been wrong. But now the terrible possibility loomed over them like the threat of double erectile dysfunction at a swinger's party—not that John would know. (He knew.)

“Argentinians,” he said, finishing Lestrade’s thoughts.

Ten feet away, Sherlock pooped on the Inspector’s windshield.

Lestrade shook his head, frown lines deepening. “We always understood the possibility that they could be the ones behind this, but I wasn’t ready to accept it. Not without proof.”

“None of us were,” said John. Unpleasant memories surfaced like the remains of a shipwreck, replaying those years spent serving on the eastern front during the Great Argentinian World War. That was seventeen years ago; he was barely twenty-three when the war ended. For nearly two decades there had been an uneasy stalemate between empires. The media had called it a Cold War, but John knew the truth. It never got cold in Argentina.

To be clear, Patagonia—the southern region near Antarctica where John had served—frequently experiences subzero temperature extremes, making his assessment incorrect. John of course hadn’t realized this as he was stationed on the _eastern_ front and had little interest in geography. “You can’t fuck geography,” he’d frequently say to his platoon. The several dented globes in his trash can were a testament to his endeavours in this area.

But that was then. The thought of entering into another war . . .

John tugged at his collar, hot at the neck. The acute stress had temporarily raised his testosterone levels through vague and confusing physiological mechanisms we won’t describe here, making him unreasonably horny. Persistent Erectile Nymphomania Insatiability Syndrome was an everyday reality for double-men remedied by over-the-counter hormone suppressants or the much preferred alternative known as casual sex. This option was also more economical.

On the topic of testosterone antagonists, there were plenty to choose them: Cock Block, Limpitor, ErecTame, SoftenX, to name the popular brands. If the problem was severe and unable to be relieved through sexual contact a doctor could prescribe Impotentracycline. Unfortunately this drug caused nighttime flatulence and therefore had poor patient compliance.

John shifted uncomfortably, his dual cocks pressed against his pants in arousal. Lestrade crouched in front of the triangle with an evidence kit, scraping the wall for paint samples to be tested back at the lab.

Well alright then.

John’s eyes lingered on the Inspector's backside as his mind debated whether this was a good time to fuck his supervisor. Besides Sherlock there wasn’t anyone around, and it wasn’t as though he hadn’t walked in on John engaging in stranger things, in many of those cases with literal strangers. Bedding the Inspector had been on John’s to-do list for some while now. But the clock was ticking. It was only a matter of time (months? days?) before Lestrade went from sexy-old to just plain, well, _old._

John went for it.

“Say,” he said after clearing his throat. “I'm in a bit of a rough spot here. Any chance you'll let me slip a pair of turgid dicks up your ass?”

Caught off guard, Lestrade whipped his head around and gave John a scandalized look.

“Absolutely not,” he said quickly, which John took to mean 'later.' “Right now I need you to focus.”

Feeling the rejection, John didn't press further, but noted that ‘focus’ sounded a lot like ‘fuck us.’ This was the kind of insightful observation that made John a first class detective and incidentally unwelcome in most yoga classes.

“Right, sorry. Just the hormones talking.” He wasn’t that sorry.

Lots of people fucked their bosses, he reasoned. And with that salt n’ pepper hair and those department store catalogue good looks, Lestrade was what on the street they called a ‘double dick-magnet.’ So how was it that a man like _that_ was such a prude? He’d mentioned wanting a wife once, but such an arrangement was impossible because women didn’t exist.

“Caw caw!” Sherlock announced to the group, breaking up the uncomfortable silence. He’d produced quite a large poop, having lucked into several pounds of leftover noodles the day before.

Lestrade finally took notice of the fecal mass the fecal mastermind had left on the hood of his car.

"You asshole," he cursed, chucking a small stone at Sherlock, who dodged it with ease. "I just had that waxed."

Pleased, Sherlock puffed out his breast. _"Caw.”_

Hah! John smiled at the retort. Sherlock could be so clever.

Putting behind his annoyance, Lestrade motioned to the vandalized wall. "We better get this cleaned up. Don't want the public to catch wind." He pulled out his phone and dialed the Ministry.

John only half-listened to the conversation—calling in a team to scrub the wall was a good idea, of course, but his mind was elsewhere. The murders were now political, an act of aggression that signaled a precursor to a second world war. He wished the culprit had been a serial killer, or some kind of satanic cult—anything boded better than Argentinean involvement. He also wished Lestrade wasn’t such a prude about being double-penetrated at a crime scene.

“Alright,” said Lestrade, flipping his phone shut. “Everything is arranged. Let’s get out of here.” He looked at John, then Sherlock. “You two eaten yet?”

Sherlock perked up at the mention of food.

“Caw,” he replied, gliding down from the Daewoo’s hood.

The vehicle beeped as Lestrade unlocked it with a remote key. “You guys walked here, right? I’ll drive.”

 

 

 

 

The trio rode in silence across the river until they reached an intersection littered with street vendors and food carts. Lestrade bought dumplings, while John, feeling less gastronomically adventurous that day, got his usual bowl of trout soup. Sherlock ordered a packet of old fish heads.

With not a cloud in the sky, the detectives walked along the river until they found a spot suitable for eating.

They made small talk over lunch. Lestrade mentioned he was thinking of buying a collie, igniting a spirited debate about whether cats or dogs made better pets. John preferred cats, while Sherlock dismissed both options, instead arguing in favor of terrestrial arthropods. Most of his specimens had met the same fate as that beetle at the crime scene; the only ones he’d managed to keep alive were two scorpions he’d purchased off of craigslist.

Tired of arguing, the conversation drifted back toward the case.

“What would Argentinian terrorists want with a bunch of naked double-men?” John finally asked. “It doesn’t make much sense.”

Lestrade glanced around nervously. “Keep your voice down.”

“What if it’s a set up by the Sri La-”

“Awk!” cried Sherlock, spitting out a fish head.

Lestrade blanched.

“Do not speak of them,” he hissed, scowling at John. “It’s forbidden.”

“I'm aware,” John replied in a huff, conscious he was treading on thin ice. "I'm just considering the possibilities. The message could have been a ruse."

"Maybe." Lestrade seemed unsure. John watched the inspector’s throat quiver as he swallowed the last bite of his dumplings and felt himself get hard again. He imagined stuffing his dicks down Lestrade’s throat, ramming months of pent up tension into that mouth, stretched wide around his collective girth.

Practically speaking, the act would almost certainly dislocate Lestrade’s jaw, and as far as John was aware the inspector was too busy wishing women existed to have anything to do with another penis (or two). John tried to imagine what women might look like were he confronted with one. He decided they probably had really huge dicks.

“What _I_ don’t get,” said Lestrade, sitting up a little straighter, “is why triangles? What do they mean?”

John shrugged. “That's easy. A triangle is a geometric shape with three sides whose internal angles add up to one-hundred-and-eighty degrees.”

“No,” said Lestrade patiently. “What’s the connection to the-”

He paused to lower his voice. “What’s the connection to the Argentinians?”

“Caw,” Sherlock offered.

John had his own theory. “Well, the country is vaguely triangular-shaped, though definitely scalene, and not equilateral like the one we found today. The one in Kangnam was an isosceles though, not that it really matters.”

“Awk!” Sherlock was dismissive.

Lestrade shook his head. “Sherlock’s right. The original country may be shaped that way, sorta—I honestly think you’re reaching a bit there—but Argentina’s international empire isn’t triangular.”

This case was creating more questions than answers. It was decided that they would visit to the national library the following day to make some real progress.

“I’ll stop by your place tomorrow around one,” said Lestrade, brushing some bird dander off his pant leg. “We’ll head over to the library from there.” In the meantime the lab would would test the paint samples he’d collected from the crime scene.

On their way back to the car, Sherlock took a quick dip in the river bank to refresh himself. Being a charadriiform bird he was capable of drinking both salt water and fresh water, processing it via his unique exocrine glands. John watched him skim the water’s edge until his attention turned to a family of seagulls enjoying the afternoon. Four fledglings splashed each other in a game of tag while their fathers relaxed on the bank, taking in the crisp spring air. They were impervious to the dangers of the world, innocently unaware of their own fragility. They had no idea how closely death followed.

Hearing a seagull giggle, John felt oddly protective. These were his people, his countrymen, his migratory seabirds with a lifespan of up to twenty years. He would stop at nothing to defend their right to exist, triangles be damned.

John made himself that promise.


End file.
